Twenty-nine women had walked out of the Costa estate in thirty days. Most of them left in tears, clutching their designer bags like bulletproof shields as they scurried down the winding gravel drive.

A week later, the family returned to the city.

The damage to the east wing of the estate was extensive, but an army of fifty private contractors had already begun gutting the charred framing and replacing the shattered stonework with reinforced titanium-plated walls. The atmosphere in the mansion, however, was fundamentally altered.

The cold, museum-like silence was gone forever.

Dominic no longer hid in his second-floor study. His laptop and ledgers were now stacked haphazardly on the corner of the large kitchen island. He held conference calls with underbosses while Maya sat on his lap, carefully applying glitter stickers to the back of his bespoke leather phone case. When Dante arrived with morning status reports, he frequently had to dodge foam darts fired by Leo, who had turned the grand foyer into a tactical obstacle course.

The staff watched the transformation with open-mouthed shock. Dominic Costa was still ruthless—he had dismantled Volkov’s entire North American operation in seventy-two hours without shedding a single ounce of Costa blood—but inside his home, the ice had thawed completely.

However, the syndicate world did not tolerate weakness.

On Friday morning, Dante stepped into the kitchen, his face drawn and pale. He waited until Elara took the children into the garden before speaking.

"The Commission called an emergency tribunal for tomorrow night," Dante said quietly, leaning over the counter. "The four remaining families are uneasy, boss. They saw the attack. They heard the rumors that a common nanny took up arms in your hallway. They think you’ve lost your edge. They think the woman is a liability."

Dominic slowly closed his ledger, his gray eyes narrowing to razor-sharp points. "Who called the vote?"

"Salvatore Marcone. He wants to strip your territory at the ports. He’s claiming your household is unstable and unfit to hold the primary charter."

Dominic stood up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket. The wound in his shoulder had healed into a tight, pink scar, and the predatory grace had returned to his movements with lethal precision.

"Inform Marcone that I will attend the tribunal," Dominic said, his voice flat and chilling. "And tell him I will not be attending alone."

The meeting was held in the subterranean vault of the Old Customs House downtown, a neutral, heavily guarded bunker where syndicate wars were either declared or settled.

The heads of the five families sat around a massive circular oak table, surrounded by their respective capos and legal advisors. At the head of the table sat Salvatore Marcone, a bloated, silver-haired tyrant who had controlled the city's gambling rackets for forty years.

When the heavy steel doors opened, Dominic stepped into the vault.

Beside him walked Elara.

She wore a razor-sharp, tailored black tuxedo suit that hugged her lean frame, her hair slicked back into an immaculate, low ponytail. Her neck was bare, save for the faint, pale scar where a piece of flying glass had nicked her collarbone during the raid. She didn't look like a nanny, and she didn't look like an ornamental mistress.

She looked like a general walking onto the field of battle.

Marcone sneered, leaning back in his leather chair, crossing his fat hands over his stomach. "Costa. We called a meeting of the Commission bosses. We didn't ask you to bring the woman who changes your children's diapers."

A low rumble of mocking laughter rippled through the capos flanking the room.

Dominic didn't take a seat. He walked to the edge of the table, placed his hands flat on the polished oak, and leaned forward until his shadow enveloped Marcone.

"Miss Vance is not my nanny, Salvatore," Dominic said, his voice quiet, clear, and dripping with venom. "She is the woman who held the line when your hired mercenaries tried to breach my home."

Marcone’s sneer froze on his face. The laughter around the table died instantly.

"What are you talking about?" Marcone stammered, his eyes darting nervously toward his capos. "Volkov attacked your house, not me—"

"Volkov didn't have the codes to the perimeter security grid," Elara interrupted, her voice cutting through the vault like a whip. She pulled a sleek silver thumb drive from her suit pocket and tossed it onto the center of the oak table. "Those codes were generated from an encrypted IP address originating inside your private yacht club in Brooklyn, Marcone. At two-fifteen AM on the night of the raid."

The other three bosses around the table immediately leaned forward, their expressions turning stone-cold.

"I spent five years balancing ledgers for loan sharks, Marcone," Elara said, taking a step toward the table, her hazel eyes burning with icy contempt. "You think you know how to hide paper? You left a four-million-dollar wire transfer sitting in a Cayman escrow account under your mistress's maiden name, payable to the mercenary commander the second the estate was cleared."

Marcone turned the color of ashes. He scrambled to his feet, reaching toward his inner pocket, but Dante’s gun was already pressed firmly against the base of his skull before his fingers could clear his jacket.

The room erupted into chaos as chairs scraped back and weapons were drawn, but Dominic never moved an inch. His eyes remained locked on Marcone, cold, unblinking, and absolute.

"You broke the sacred law of the Commission," Dominic whispered, his voice resonating through the vault like the toll of a funeral bell. "You brought fire to a house where children sleep."

Dominic turned his gaze to the other three syndicate leaders. "Does anyone at this table dispute my authority to execute the traitor?"

The bosses looked at Marcone, then at the thumb drive, and finally at Elara, who stood beside Dominic with absolute, unyielding dominance. One by one, the three bosses slowly shook their heads, lowering their weapons.

"Take him to the basement," Dominic ordered Dante.

As Marcone was dragged out of the vault, kicking and screaming in terror, Dominic reached out and took Elara’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers in full view of the entire underworld leadership.